The Marsh King’s Daughter

by

Hans Christian Andersen

(1858)

HE storks relate to their little ones a
great many stories, and they are all about moors and reed banks, and
suited to their age and capacity. The youngest of them are quite
satisfied with “kribble, krabble,” or such nonsense, and think it very
grand; but the elder ones want something with a deeper meaning, or at
least something about their own family.

We are only acquainted with one of the two longest and oldest stories
which the storks relate—it is about Moses, who was exposed by his mother
on the banks of the Nile, and was found by the king’s daughter, who gave
him a good education, and he afterwards became a great man; but where he
was buried is still unknown.

Every one knows this story, but not the second; very likely because it is
quite an inland story. It has been repeated from mouth to mouth, from one
stork-mamma to another, for thousands of years; and each has told it
better than the last; and now we mean to tell it better than all.

The first stork pair who related it lived at the time it happened, and
had their summer residence on the rafters of the Viking’s1 house, which stood near the wild moorlands of
Wendsyssell; that is, to speak more correctly, the great moorheath, high
up in the north of Jutland, by the Skjagen peak. This wilderness is still
an immense wild heath of marshy ground, about which we can read in the
“Official Directory.” It is said that in olden times the place was a
lake, the ground of which had heaved up from beneath, and now the
moorland extends for miles in every direction, and is surrounded by damp
meadows, trembling, undulating swamps, and marshy ground covered with
turf, on which grow bilberry bushes and stunted trees. Mists are almost
always hovering over this region, which, seventy years ago, was overrun
with wolves. It may well be called the Wild Moor; and one can easily
imagine, with such a wild expanse of marsh and lake, how lonely and
dreary it must have been a thousand years ago. Many things may be noticed
now that existed then. The reeds grow to the same height, and bear the
same kind of long, purple-brown leaves, with their feathery tips. There
still stands the birch, with its white bark and its delicate, loosely
hanging leaves; and with regard to the living beings who frequented this
spot, the fly still wears a gauzy dress of the same cut, and the favorite
colors of the stork are white, with black and red for stockings. The
people, certainly, in those days, wore very different dresses to those
they now wear, but if any of them, be he huntsman or squire, master or
servant, ventured on the wavering, undulating, marshy ground of the moor,
they met with the same fate a thousand years ago as they would now. The
wanderer sank, and went down to the Marsh King, as he is named, who rules
in the great moorland empire beneath. They also called him “Gunkel King,”
but we like the name of “Marsh King” better, and we will give him that
name as the storks do. Very little is known of the Marsh King’s rule, but
that, perhaps, is a good thing.

In the neighborhood of the moorlands, and not far from the great arm of
the North Sea and the Cattegat which is called the Lumfjorden, lay the
castle of the Viking, with its water-tight stone cellars, its tower, and
its three projecting storeys. On the ridge of the roof the stork had
built his nest, and there the stork-mamma sat on her eggs and felt sure
her hatching would come to something.

One evening, stork-papa stayed out rather late, and when he came home he
seemed quite busy, bustling, and important. “I have something very
dreadful to tell you,” said he to the stork-mamma.

“Keep it to yourself then,” she replied. “Remember that I am hatching
eggs; it may agitate me, and will affect them.”

“You must know it at once,” said he. “The daughter of our host in Egypt
has arrived here. She has ventured to take this journey, and now she is
lost.”

“She who sprung from the race of the fairies, is it?” cried the mother
stork. “Oh, tell me all about it; you know I cannot bear to be kept
waiting at a time when I am hatching eggs.”

“Well, you see, mother,” he replied, “she believed what the doctors said,
and what I have heard you state also, that the moor-flowers which grow
about here would heal her sick father; and she has flown to the north in
swan’s plumage, in company with some other swan-princesses, who come to
these parts every year to renew their youth. She came, and where is she
now!”

“You enter into particulars too much,” said the mamma stork, “and the
eggs may take cold; I cannot bear such suspense as this.”

“Well,” said he, “I have kept watch; and this evening I went among the
rushes where I thought the marshy ground would bear me, and while I was
there three swans came. Something in their manner of flying seemed to say
to me, ‘Look carefully now; there is one not all swan, only swan’s
feathers.’ You know, mother, you have the same intuitive feeling that I
have; you know whether a thing is right or not immediately.”

“Yes, of course,” said she; “but tell me about the princess; I am tired
of hearing about the swan’s feathers.”

“Well, you know that in the middle of the moor there is something like a
lake,” said the stork-papa. “You can see the edge of it if you raise
yourself a little. Just there, by the reeds and the green banks, lay the
trunk of an elder-tree; upon this the three swans stood flapping their
wings, and looking about them; one of them threw off her plumage, and I
immediately recognized her as one of the princesses of our home in Egypt.
There she sat, without any covering but her long, black hair. I heard her
tell the two others to take great care of the swan’s plumage, while she
dipped down into the water to pluck the flowers which she fancied she saw
there. The others nodded, and picked up the feather dress, and took
possession of it. I wonder what will become of it? thought I, and she
most likely asked herself the same question. If so, she received an
answer, a very practical one; for the two swans rose up and flew away
with her swan’s plumage. ‘Dive down now!’ they cried; ‘thou shalt never
more fly in the swan’s plumage, thou shalt never again see Egypt; here,
on the moor, thou wilt remain.’ So saying, they tore the swan’s plumage
into a thousand pieces, the feathers drifted about like a snow-shower,
and then the two deceitful princesses flew away.”

“Why, that is terrible,” said the stork-mamma; “I feel as if I could
hardly bear to hear any more, but you must tell me what happened next.”

“The princess wept and lamented aloud; her tears moistened the elder
stump, which was really not an elder stump but the Marsh King himself, he
who in marshy ground lives and rules. I saw myself how the stump of the
tree turned round, and was a tree no more, while long, clammy branches
like arms, were extended from it. Then the poor child was terribly
frightened, and started up to run away. She hastened to cross the green,
slimy ground; but it will not bear any weight, much less hers. She
quickly sank, and the elder stump dived immediately after her; in fact,
it was he who drew her down. Great black bubbles rose up out of the
moor-slime, and with these every trace of the two vanished. And now the
princess is buried in the wild marsh, she will never now carry flowers to
Egypt to cure her father. It would have broken your heart, mother, had
you seen it.”

“You ought not to have told me,” said she, “at such a time as this; the
eggs might suffer. But I think the princess will soon find help; some one
will rise up to help her. Ah! if it had been you or I, or one of our
people, it would have been all over with us.”

“I mean to go every day,” said he, “to see if anything comes to pass;”
and so he did.

A long time went by, but at last he saw a green stalk shooting up out of
the deep, marshy ground. As it reached the surface of the marsh, a leaf
spread out, and unfolded itself broader and broader, and close to it came
forth a bud.

One morning, when the stork-papa was flying over the stem, he saw that
the power of the sun’s rays had caused the bud to open, and in the cup of
the flower lay a charming child—a little maiden, looking as if she had
just come out of a bath. The little one was so like the Egyptian
princess, that the stork, at the first moment, thought it must be the
princess herself, but after a little reflection he decided that it was
much more likely to be the daughter of the princess and the Marsh King;
and this explained also her being placed in the cup of a water-lily. “But
she cannot be left to lie here,” thought the stork, “and in my nest there
are already so many. But stay, I have thought of something: the wife of
the Viking has no children, and how often she has wished for a little
one. People always say the stork brings the little ones; I will do so in
earnest this time. I shall fly with the child to the Viking’s wife; what
rejoicing there will be!”

And then the stork lifted the little girl out of the flower-cup, flew to
the castle, picked a hole with his beak in the bladder-covered, window,
and laid the beautiful child in the bosom of the Viking’s wife. Then he
flew back quickly to the stork-mamma and told her what he had seen and
done; and the little storks listened to it all, for they were then quite
old enough to do so. “So you see,” he continued, “that the princess is
not dead, for she must have sent her little one up here; and now I have
found a home for her.”

“Ah, I said it would be so from the first,” replied the stork-mamma; “but
now think a little of your own family. Our travelling time draws near,
and I sometimes feel a little irritation already under the wings. The
cuckoos and the nightingale are already gone, and I heard the quails say
they should go too as soon as the wind was favorable. Our youngsters will
go through all the manoeuvres at the review very well, or I am much
mistaken in them.”

The Viking’s wife was above measure delighted when she awoke the next
morning and found the beautiful little child lying in her bosom. She
kissed it and caressed it; but it cried terribly, and struck out with its
arms and legs, and did not seem to be pleased at all. At last it cried
itself to sleep; and as it lay there so still and quiet, it was a most
beautiful sight to see. The Viking’s wife was so delighted, that body and
soul were full of joy. Her heart felt so light within her, that it seemed
as if her husband and his soldiers, who were absent, must come home as
suddenly and unexpectedly as the little child had done. She and her whole
household therefore busied themselves in preparing everything for the
reception of her lord. The long, colored tapestry, on which she and her
maidens had worked pictures of their idols, Odin, Thor, and Friga, was
hung up. The slaves polished the old shields that served as ornaments;
cushions were placed on the seats, and dry wood laid on the fireplaces in
the centre of the hall, so that the flames might be fanned up at a
moment’s notice. The Viking’s wife herself assisted in the work, so that
at night she felt very tired, and quickly fell into a sound sleep. When
she awoke, just before morning, she was terribly alarmed to find that the
infant had vanished. She sprang from her couch, lighted a pine-chip, and
searched all round the room, when, at last, in that part of the bed where
her feet had been, lay, not the child, but a great, ugly frog. She was
quite disgusted at this sight, and seized a heavy stick to kill the frog;
but the creature looked at her with such strange, mournful eyes, that she
was unable to strike the blow. Once more she searched round the room;
then she started at hearing the frog utter a low, painful croak. She
sprang from the couch and opened the window hastily; at the same moment
the sun rose, and threw its beams through the window, till it rested on
the couch where the great frog lay. Suddenly it appeared as if the frog’s
broad mouth contracted, and became small and red. The limbs moved and
stretched out and extended themselves till they took a beautiful shape;
and behold there was the pretty child lying before her, and the ugly frog
was gone. “How is this?” she cried, “have I had a wicked dream? Is it not
my own lovely cherub that lies there.” Then she kissed it and fondled it;
but the child struggled and fought, and bit as if she had been a little
wild cat.

The Viking did not return on that day, nor the next; he was, however, on
the way home; but the wind, so favorable to the storks, was against him;
for it blew towards the south. A wind in favor of one is often against
another.

After two or three days had passed, it became clear to the Viking’s wife
how matters stood with the child; it was under the influence of a
powerful sorcerer. By day it was charming in appearance as an angel of
light, but with a temper wicked and wild; while at night, in the form of
an ugly frog, it was quiet and mournful, with eyes full of sorrow. Here
were two natures, changing inwardly and outwardly with the absence and
return of sunlight. And so it happened that by day the child, with the
actual form of its mother, possessed the fierce disposition of its
father; at night, on the contrary, its outward appearance plainly showed
its descent on the father’s side, while inwardly it had the heart and
mind of its mother. Who would be able to loosen this wicked charm which
the sorcerer had worked upon it? The wife of the Viking lived in constant
pain and sorrow about it. Her heart clung to the little creature, but she
could not explain to her husband the circumstances in which it was
placed. He was expected to return shortly; and were she to tell him, he
would very likely, as was the custom at that time, expose the poor child
in the public highway, and let any one take it away who would. The good
wife of the Viking could not let that happen, and she therefore resolved
that the Viking should never see the child excepting by daylight.

One morning there sounded a rushing of storks’ wings over the roof. More
than a hundred pair of storks had rested there during the night, to
recover themselves after their excursion; and now they soared aloft, and
prepared for the journey southward.

“All the husbands are here, and ready!” they cried; “wives and children
also!”

“How light we are!” screamed the young storks in chorus. “Something
pleasant seems creeping over us, even down to our toes, as if we were
full of live frogs. Ah, how delightful it is to travel into foreign
lands!”

“Hold yourselves properly in the line with us,” cried papa and mamma. “Do
not use your beaks so much; it tries the lungs.” And then the storks flew
away.

About the same time sounded the clang of the warriors’ trumpets across
the heath. The Viking had landed with his men. They were returning home,
richly laden with spoil from the Gallic coast, where the people, as did
also the inhabitants of Britain, often cried in alarm, “Deliver us from
the wild northmen.”

Life and noisy pleasure came with them into the castle of the Viking on
the moorland. A great cask of mead was drawn into the hall, piles of wood
blazed, cattle were slain and served up, that they might feast in
reality, The priest who offered the sacrifice sprinkled the devoted
parishioners with the warm blood; the fire crackled, and the smoke rolled
along beneath the roof; the soot fell upon them from the beams; but they
were used to all these things. Guests were invited, and received handsome
presents. All wrongs and unfaithfulness were forgotten. They drank
deeply, and threw in each other’s faces the bones that were left, which
was looked upon as a sign of good feeling amongst them. A bard, who was a
kind of musician as well as warrior, and who had been with the Viking in
his expedition, and knew what to sing about, gave them one of his best
songs, in which they heard all their warlike deeds praised, and every
wonderful action brought forward with honor. Every verse ended with this
refrain,—

“Gold and possessions will flee away,
Friends and foes must die one day;
Every man on earth must die,
But a famous name will never die.”

And with that they beat upon their shields, and hammered upon
the table with knives and bones, in a most outrageous manner.

The Viking’s wife sat upon a raised cross seat in the open hall. She wore
a silk dress, golden bracelets, and large amber beads. She was in costly
attire, and the bard named her in his song, and spoke of the rich
treasure of gold which she had brought to her husband. Her husband had
already seen the wonderfully beautiful child in the daytime, and was
delighted with her beauty; even her wild ways pleased him. He said the
little maiden would grow up to be a heroine, with the strong will and
determination of a man. She would never wink her eyes, even if, in joke,
an expert hand should attempt to cut off her eye-brows with a sharp
sword.

The full cask of mead soon became empty, and a fresh one was brought in;
for these were people who liked plenty to eat and drink. The old proverb,
which every one knows, says that “the cattle know when to leave their
pasture, but a foolish man knows not the measure of his own appetite.”
Yes, they all knew this; but men may know what is right, and yet often do
wrong. They also knew “that even the welcome guest becomes wearisome when
he sits too long in the house.” But there they remained; for pork and
mead are good things. And so at the Viking’s house they stayed, and
enjoyed themselves; and at night the bondmen slept in the ashes, and
dipped their fingers in the fat, and licked them. Oh, it was a delightful
time!

Once more in the same year the Viking went forth, though the storms of
autumn had already commenced to roar. He went with his warriors to the
coast of Britain; he said that it was but an excursion of pleasure across
the water, so his wife remained at home with the little girl. After a
while, it is quite certain the foster-mother began to love the poor frog,
with its gentle eyes and its deep sighs, even better than the little
beauty who bit and fought with all around her.

The heavy, damp mists of autumn, which destroy the leaves of the wood,
had already fallen upon forest and heath. Feathers of plucked birds, as
they call the snow, flew about in thick showers, and winter was coming.
The sparrows took possession of the stork’s nest, and conversed about the
absent owners in their own fashion; and they, the stork pair and all
their young ones, where were they staying now? The storks might have been
found in the land of Egypt, where the sun’s rays shone forth bright and
warm, as it does here at midsummer. Tamarinds and acacias were in full
bloom all over the country, the crescent of Mahomet glittered brightly
from the cupolas of the mosques, and on the slender pinnacles sat many of
the storks, resting after their long journey. Swarms of them took divided
possession of the nests—nests which lay close to each other between the
venerable columns, and crowded the arches of temples in forgotten cities.
The date and the palm lifted themselves as a screen or as a sun-shade
over them. The gray pyramids looked like broken shadows in the clear air
and the far-off desert, where the ostrich wheels his rapid flight, and
the lion, with his subtle eyes, gazes at the marble sphinx which lies
half buried in sand. The waters of the Nile had retreated, and the whole
bed of the river was covered with frogs, which was a most acceptable
prospect for the stork families. The young storks thought their eyes
deceived them, everything around appeared so beautiful.

“It is always like this here, and this is how we live in our warm
country,” said the stork-mamma; and the thought made the young ones
almost beside themselves with pleasure.

“Is there anything more to see?” they asked; “are we going farther into
the country?”

“There is nothing further for us to see,” answered the stork-mamma.
“Beyond this delightful region there are immense forests, where the
branches of the trees entwine round each other, while prickly, creeping
plants cover the paths, and only an elephant could force a passage for
himself with his great feet. The snakes are too large, and the lizards
too lively for us to catch. Then there is the desert; if you went there,
your eyes would soon be full of sand with the lightest breeze, and if it
should blow great guns, you would most likely find yourself in a
sand-drift. Here is the best place for you, where there are frogs and
locusts; here I shall remain, and so must you.” And so they stayed.

The parents sat in the nest on the slender minaret, and rested, yet still
were busily employed in cleaning and smoothing their feathers, and in
sharpening their beaks against their red stockings; then they would
stretch out their necks, salute each other, and gravely raise their heads
with the high-polished forehead, and soft, smooth feathers, while their
brown eyes shone with intelligence. The female young ones strutted about
amid the moist rushes, glancing at the other young storks and making
acquaintances, and swallowing a frog at every third step, or tossing a
little snake about with their beaks, in a way they considered very
becoming, and besides it tasted very good. The young male storks soon
began to quarrel; they struck at each other with their wings, and pecked
with their beaks till the blood came. And in this manner many of the
young ladies and gentlemen were betrothed to each other: it was, of
course, what they wanted, and indeed what they lived for. Then they
returned to a nest, and there the quarrelling began afresh; for in hot
countries people are almost all violent and passionate. But for all that
it was pleasant, especially for the old people, who watched them with
great joy: all that their young ones did suited them. Every day here
there was sunshine, plenty to eat, and nothing to think of but pleasure.
But in the rich castle of their Egyptian host, as they called him,
pleasure was not to be found. The rich and mighty lord of the castle lay
on his couch, in the midst of the great hall, with its many colored walls
looking like the centre of a great tulip; but he was stiff and powerless
in all his limbs, and lay stretched out like a mummy. His family and
servants stood round him; he was not dead, although he could scarcely be
said to live. The healing moor-flower from the north, which was to have
been found and brought to him by her who loved him so well, had not
arrived. His young and beautiful daughter who, in swan’s plumage, had
flown over land and seas to the distant north, had never returned. She is
dead, so the two swan-maidens had said when they came home; and they made
up quite a story about her, and this is what they told,—

“We three flew away together through the air,” said they: “a hunter
caught sight of us, and shot at us with an arrow. The arrow struck our
young friend and sister, and slowly singing her farewell song she sank
down, a dying swan, into the forest lake. On the shores of the lake,
under a spreading birch-tree, we laid her in the cold earth. We had our
revenge; we bound fire under the wings of a swallow, who had a nest on
the thatched roof of the huntsman. The house took fire, and burst into
flames; the hunter was burnt with the house, and the light was reflected
over the sea as far as the spreading birch, beneath which we laid her
sleeping dust. She will never return to the land of Egypt.” And then they
both wept. And stork-papa, who heard the story, snapped with his beak so
that it might be heard a long way off.

“Deceit and lies!” cried he; “I should like to run my beak deep into
their chests.”

“And perhaps break it off,” said the mamma stork, “then what a sight you
would be. Think first of yourself, and then of your family; all others
are nothing to us.”

“Yes, I know,” said the stork-papa; “but to-morrow I can easily place
myself on the edge of the open cupola, when the learned and wise men
assemble to consult on the state of the sick man; perhaps they may come a
little nearer to the truth.” And the learned and wise men assembled
together, and talked a great deal on every point; but the stork could
make no sense out of anything they said; neither were there any good
results from their consultations, either for the sick man, or for his
daughter in the marshy heath. When we listen to what people say in this
world, we shall hear a great deal; but it is an advantage to know what
has been said and done before, when we listen to a conversation. The
stork did, and we know at least as much as he, the stork.

“Love is a life-giver. The highest love produces the highest life. Only
through love can the sick man be cured.” This had been said by many, and
even the learned men acknowledged that it was a wise saying.

“What a beautiful thought!” exclaimed the papa stork immediately.

“I don’t quite understand it,” said the mamma stork, when her husband
repeated it; “however, it is not my fault, but the fault of the thought;
whatever it may be, I have something else to think of.”

Now the learned men had spoken also of love between this one and that
one; of the difference of the love which we have for our neighbor, to the
love that exists between parents and children; of the love of the plant
for the light, and how the germ springs forth when the sunbeam kisses the
ground. All these things were so elaborately and learnedly explained,
that it was impossible for stork-papa to follow it, much less to talk
about it. His thoughts on the subject quite weighed him down; he stood
the whole of the following day on one leg, with half-shut eyes, thinking
deeply. So much learning was quite a heavy weight for him to carry. One
thing, however, the papa stork could understand. Every one, high and low,
had from their inmost hearts expressed their opinion that it was a great
misfortune for so many thousands of people—the whole country indeed—to
have this man so sick, with no hopes of his recovery. And what joy and
blessing it would spread around if he could by any means be cured! But
where bloomed the flower that could bring him health? They had searched
for it everywhere; in learned writings, in the shining stars, in the
weather and wind. Inquiries had been made in every by-way that could be
thought of, until at last the wise and learned men has asserted, as we
have been already told, that “love, the life-giver, could alone give new
life to a father;” and in saying this, they had overdone it, and said
more than they understood themselves. They repeated it, and wrote it down
as a recipe, “Love is a life-giver.” But how could such a recipe be
prepared—that was a difficulty they could not overcome. At last it was
decided that help could only come from the princess herself, whose whole
soul was wrapped up in her father, especially as a plan had been adopted
by her to enable her to obtain a remedy.

More than a year had passed since the princess had set out at night, when
the light of the young moon was soon lost beneath the horizon. She had
gone to the marble sphinx in the desert, shaking the sand from her
sandals, and then passed through the long passage, which leads to the
centre of one of the great pyramids, where the mighty kings of antiquity,
surrounded with pomp and splendor, lie veiled in the form of mummies. She
had been told by the wise men, that if she laid her head on the breast of
one of them, from the head she would learn where to find life and
recovery for her father. She had performed all this, and in a dream had
learnt that she must bring home to her father the lotus flower, which
grows in the deep sea, near the moors and heath in the Danish land. The
very place and situation had been pointed out to her, and she was told
that the flower would restore her father to health and strength. And,
therefore, she had gone forth from the land of Egypt, flying over to the
open marsh and the wild moor in the plumage of a swan.

The papa and mamma storks knew all this, and we also know it now. We
know, too, that the Marsh King has drawn her down to himself, and that to
the loved ones at home she is forever dead. One of the wisest of them
said, as the stork-mamma also said, “That in some way she would, after
all, manage to succeed;” and so at last they comforted themselves with
this hope, and would wait patiently; in fact, they could do nothing
better.

“I should like to get away the swan’s feathers from those two treacherous
princesses,” said the papa stork; “then, at least, they would not be able
to fly over again to the wild moor, and do more wickedness. I can hide
the two suits of feathers over yonder, till we find some use for them.”

“But where will you put them?” asked the mamma stork.

“In our nest on the moor. I and the young ones will carry them by turns
during our flight across; and as we return, should they prove too heavy
for us, we shall be sure to find plenty of places on the way in which we
can conceal them till our next journey. Certainly one suit of swan’s
feathers would be enough for the princess, but two are always better. In
those northern countries no one can have too many travelling wrappers.”

“No one will thank you for it,” said stork-mamma; “but you are master;
and, excepting at breeding time, I have nothing to say.”

In the Viking’s castle on the wild moor, to which the storks directed
their flight in the following spring, the little maiden still remained.
They had named her Helga, which was rather too soft a name for a child
with a temper like hers, although her form was still beautiful. Every
month this temper showed itself in sharper outlines; and in the course of
years, while the storks still made the same journeys in autumn to the
hill, and in spring to the moors, the child grew to be almost a woman,
and before any one seemed aware of it, she was a wonderfully beautiful
maiden of sixteen. The casket was splendid, but the contents were
worthless. She was, indeed, wild and savage even in those hard,
uncultivated times. It was a pleasure to her to splash about with her
white hands in the warm blood of the horse which had been slain for
sacrifice. In one of her wild moods she bit off the head of the black
cock, which the priest was about to slay for the sacrifice. To her
foster-father she said one day, “If thine enemy were to pull down thine
house about thy ears, and thou shouldest be sleeping in unconscious
security, I would not wake thee; even if I had the power I would never do
it, for my ears still tingle with the blow that thou gavest me years ago.
I have never forgotten it.” But the Viking treated her words as a joke;
he was, like every one else, bewitched with her beauty, and knew nothing
of the change in the form and temper of Helga at night. Without a saddle,
she would sit on a horse as if she were a part of it, while it rushed
along at full speed; nor would she spring from its back, even when it
quarrelled with other horses and bit them. She would often leap from the
high shore into the sea with all her clothes on, and swim to meet the
Viking, when his boat was steering home towards the shore. She once cut
off a long lock of her beautiful hair, and twisted it into a string for
her bow. “If a thing is to be done well,” said she, “I must do it
myself.”

The Viking’s wife was, for the time in which she lived, a woman of strong
character and will; but, compared to her daughter, she was a gentle,
timid woman, and she knew that a wicked sorcerer had the terrible child
in his power. It was sometimes as if Helga acted from sheer wickedness;
for often when her mother stood on the threshold of the door, or stepped
into the yard, she would seat herself on the brink of the well, wave her
arms and legs in the air, and suddenly fall right in. Here she was able,
from her frog nature, to dip and dive about in the water of the deep
well, until at last she would climb forth like a cat, and come back into
the hall dripping with water, so that the green leaves that were strewed
on the floor were whirled round, and carried away by the streams that
flowed from her.

But there was one time of the day which placed a check upon Helga. It was
the evening twilight; when this hour arrived she became quiet and
thoughtful, and allowed herself to be advised and led; then also a secret
feeling seemed to draw her towards her mother. And as usual, when the sun
set, and the transformation took place, both in body and mind, inwards
and outwards, she would remain quiet and mournful, with her form shrunk
together in the shape of a frog. Her body was much larger than those
animals ever are, and on this account it was much more hideous in
appearance; for she looked like a wretched dwarf, with a frog’s head, and
webbed fingers. Her eyes had a most piteous expression; she was without a
voice, excepting a hollow, croaking sound, like the smothered sobs of a
dreaming child.

Then the Viking’s wife took her on her lap, and forgot the ugly form, as
she looked into the mournful eyes, and often said, “I could wish that
thou wouldst always remain my dumb frog child, for thou art too terrible
when thou art clothed in a form of beauty.” And the Viking woman wrote
Runic characters against sorcery and spells of sickness, and threw them
over the wretched child; but they did no good.

“One can scarcely believe that she was ever small enough to lie in the
cup of the water-lily,” said the papa stork; “and now she is grown up,
and the image of her Egyptian mother, especially about the eyes. Ah, we
shall never see her again; perhaps she has not discovered how to help
herself, as you and the wise men said she would. Year after year have I
flown across and across the moor, but there was no sign of her being
still alive. Yes, and I may as well tell you that you that each year,
when I arrived a few days before you to repair the nest, and put
everything in its place, I have spent a whole night flying here and there
over the marshy lake, as if I had been an owl or a bat, but all to no
purpose. The two suit of swan’s plumage, which I and the young ones
dragged over here from the land of the Nile, are of no use; trouble
enough it was to us to bring them here in three journeys, and now they
are lying at the bottom of the nest; and if a fire should happen to break
out, and the wooden house be burnt down, they would be destroyed.”

“And our good nest would be destroyed, too,” said the mamma stork; “but
you think less of that than of your plumage stuff and your moor-princess.
Go and stay with her in the marsh if you like. You are a bad father to
your own children, as I have told you already, when I hatched my first
brood. I only hope neither we nor our children may have an arrow sent
through our wings, owing to that wild girl. Helga does not know in the
least what she is about. We have lived in this house longer than she has,
she should think of that, and we have never forgotten our duty. We have
paid every year our toll of a feather, an egg, and a young one, as it is
only right we should do. You don’t suppose I can wander about the
court-yard, or go everywhere as I used to do in old times. I can do it in
Egypt, where I can be a companion of the people, without forgetting
myself. But here I cannot go and peep into the pots and kettles as I do
there. No, I can only sit up here and feel angry with that girl, the
little wretch; and I am angry with you, too; you should have left her
lying in the water lily, then no one would have known anything about
her.”

“You are far better than your conversation,” said the papa stork; “I know
you better than you know yourself.” And with that he gave a hop, and
flapped his wings twice, proudly; then he stretched his neck and flew, or
rather soared away, without moving his outspread wings. He went on for
some distance, and then he gave a great flap with his wings and flew on
his course at a rapid rate, his head and neck bending proudly before him,
while the sun’s rays fell on his glossy plumage.

“He is the handsomest of them all,” said the mamma stork, as she watched
him; “but I won’t tell him so.”

Early in the autumn, the Viking again returned home laden with spoil, and
bringing prisoners with him. Among them was a young Christian priest, one
of those who contemned the gods of the north. Often lately there had
been, both in hall and chamber, a talk of the new faith which was
spreading far and wide in the south, and which, through the means of the
holy Ansgarius, had already reached as far as Hedeby on the Schlei. Even
Helga had heard of this belief in the teachings of One who was named
Christ, and who for the love of mankind, and for their redemption, had
given up His life. But to her all this had, as it were, gone in one ear
and out the other. It seemed that she only understood the meaning of the
word “love,” when in the form of a miserable frog she crouched together
in the corner of the sleeping chamber; but the Viking’s wife had listened
to the wonderful story, and had felt herself strangely moved by it.

On their return, after this voyage, the men spoke of the beautiful
temples built of polished stone, which had been raised for the public
worship of this holy love. Some vessels, curiously formed of massive
gold, had been brought home among the booty. There was a peculiar
fragrance about them all, for they were incense vessels, which had been
swung before the altars in the temples by the Christian priests. In the
deep stony cellars of the castle, the young Christian priest was immured,
and his hands and feet tied together with strips of bark. The Viking’s
wife considered him as beautiful as Baldur, and his distress raised her
pity; but Helga said he ought to have ropes fastened to his heels, and be
tied to the tails of wild animals.

“I would let the dogs loose after him” she said; “over the moor and
across the heath. Hurrah! that would be a spectacle for the gods, and
better still to follow in its course.”

But the Viking would not allow him to die such a death as that,
especially as he was the disowned and despiser of the high gods. In a few
days, he had decided to have him offered as a sacrifice on the
blood-stone in the grove. For the first time, a man was to be sacrificed
here. Helga begged to be allowed to sprinkle the assembled people with
the blood of the priest. She sharpened her glittering knife; and when one
of the great, savage dogs, who were running about the Viking’s castle in
great numbers, sprang towards her, she thrust the knife into his side,
merely, as she said, to prove its sharpness.

The Viking’s wife looked at the wild, badly disposed girl, with great
sorrow; and when night came on, and her daughter’s beautiful form and
disposition were changed, she spoke in eloquent words to Helga of the
sorrow and deep grief that was in her heart. The ugly frog, in its
monstrous shape, stood before her, and raised its brown mournful eyes to
her face, listening to her words, and seeming to understand them with the
intelligence of a human being.

“Never once to my lord and husband has a word passed my lips of what I
have to suffer through you; my heart is full of grief about you,” said
the Viking’s wife. “The love of a mother is greater and more powerful
than I ever imagined. But love never entered thy heart; it is cold and
clammy, like the plants on the moor.”

Then the miserable form trembled; it was as if these words had touched an
invisible bond between body and soul, for great tears stood in the eyes.

“A bitter time will come for thee at last,” continued the Viking’s wife;
“and it will be terrible for me too. It had been better for thee if thou
hadst been left on the high-road, with the cold night wind to lull thee
to sleep.” And the Viking’s wife shed bitter tears, and went away in
anger and sorrow, passing under the partition of furs, which hung loose
over the beam and divided the hall.

The shrivelled frog still sat in the corner alone. Deep silence reigned
around. At intervals, a half-stifled sigh was heard from its inmost soul;
it was the soul of Helga. It seemed in pain, as if a new life were
arising in her heart. Then she took a step forward and listened; then
stepped again forward, and seized with her clumsy hands the heavy bar
which was laid across the door. Gently, and with much trouble, she pushed
back the bar, as silently lifted the latch, and then took up the
glimmering lamp which stood in the ante-chamber of the hall. It seemed as
if a stronger will than her own gave her strength. She removed the iron
bolt from the closed cellar-door, and slipped in to the prisoner. He was
slumbering. She touched him with her cold, moist hand, and as he awoke
and caught sight of the hideous form, he shuddered as if he beheld a
wicked apparition. She drew her knife, cut through the bonds which
confined his hands and feet, and beckoned to him to follow her. He
uttered some holy names and made the sign of the cross, while the form
remained motionless by his side.

“Who art thou?” he asked, “whose outward appearance is that of an animal,
while thou willingly performest acts of mercy?”

The frog-figure beckoned to him to follow her, and led him through a long
gallery concealed by hanging drapery to the stables, and then pointed to
a horse. He mounted upon it, and she sprang up also before him, and held
tightly by the animal’s mane. The prisoner understood her, and they rode
on at a rapid trot, by a road which he would never have found by himself,
across the open heath. He forgot her ugly form, and only thought how the
mercy and loving-kindness of the Almighty was acting through this hideous
apparition. As he offered pious prayers and sang holy songs of praise,
she trembled. Was it the effect of prayer and praise that caused this?
or, was she shuddering in the cold morning air at the thought of
approaching twilight? What were her feelings? She raised herself up, and
wanted to stop the horse and spring off, but the Christian priest held
her back with all his might, and then sang a pious song, as if this could
loosen the wicked charm that had changed her into the semblance of a
frog.

And the horse galloped on more wildly than before. The sky painted itself
red, the first sunbeam pierced through the clouds, and in the clear flood
of sunlight the frog became changed. It was Helga again, young and
beautiful, but with a wicked demoniac spirit. He held now a beautiful
young woman in his arms, and he was horrified at the sight. He stopped
the horse, and sprang from its back. He imagined that some new sorcery
was at work. But Helga also leaped from the horse and stood on the
ground. The child’s short garment reached only to her knee. She snatched
the sharp knife from her girdle, and rushed like lightning at the
astonished priest. “Let me get at thee!” she cried; “let me get at thee,
that I may plunge this knife into thy body. Thou art pale as ashes, thou
beardless slave.” She pressed in upon him. They struggled with each other
in heavy combat, but it was as if an invisible power had been given to
the Christian in the struggle. He held her fast, and the old oak under
which they stood seemed to help him, for the loosened roots on the ground
became entangled in the maiden’s feet, and held them fast. Close by rose
a bubbling spring, and he sprinkled Helga’s face and neck with the water,
commanded the unclean spirit to come forth, and pronounced upon her a
Christian blessing. But the water of faith has no power unless the
well-spring of faith flows within. And yet even here its power was shown;
something more than the mere strength of a man opposed itself, through
his means, against the evil which struggled within her. His holy action
seemed to overpower her. She dropped her arms, glanced at him with pale
cheeks and looks of amazement. He appeared to her a mighty magician
skilled in secret arts; his language was the darkest magic to her, and
the movements of his hands in the air were as the secret signs of a
magician’s wand. She would not have blinked had he waved over her head a
sharp knife or a glittering axe; but she shrunk from him as he signed her
with the sign of the cross on her forehead and breast, and sat before him
like a tame bird, with her head bowed down. Then he spoke to her, in
gentle words, of the deed of love she had performed for him during the
night, when she had come to him in the form of an ugly frog, to loosen
his bonds, and to lead him forth to life and light; and he told her that
she was bound in closer fetters than he had been, and that she could
recover also life and light by his means. He would take her to
Hedeby2 to St. Ansgarius, and there, in that
Christian town, the spell of the sorcerer would be removed. But he would
not let her sit before him on the horse, though of her own free will she
wished to do so. “Thou must sit behind me, not before me,” said he. “Thy
magic beauty has a magic power which comes from an evil origin, and I
fear it; still I am sure to overcome through my faith in Christ.” Then he
knelt down, and prayed with pious fervor. It was as if the quiet woodland
were a holy church consecrated by his worship. The birds sang as if they
were also of this new congregation; and the fragrance of the wild flowers
was as the ambrosial perfume of incense; while, above all, sounded the
words of Scripture, “A light to them that sit in darkness and in the
shadow of death, to guide their feet into the way of peace.” And he spoke
these words with the deep longing of his whole nature.

Meanwhile, the horse that had carried them in wild career stood quietly
by, plucking at the tall bramble-bushes, till the ripe young berries fell
down upon Helga’s hands, as if inviting her to eat. Patiently she allowed
herself to be lifted on the horse, and sat there like a somnambulist—as
one who walked in his sleep. The Christian bound two branches together
with bark, in the form of a cross, and held it on high as they rode
through the forest. The way gradually grew thicker of brushwood, as they
rode along, till at last it became a trackless wilderness. Bushes of the
wild sloe here and there blocked up the path, so that they had to ride
over them. The bubbling spring formed not a stream, but a marsh, round
which also they were obliged to guide the horse; still there were
strength and refreshment in the cool forest breeze, and no trifling power
in the gentle words spoken in faith and Christian love by the young
priest, whose inmost heart yearned to lead this poor lost one into the
way of light and life. It is said that rain-drops can make a hollow in
the hardest stone, and the waves of the sea can smooth and round the
rough edges of the rocks; so did the dew of mercy fall upon Helga,
softening what was hard, and smoothing what was rough in her character.
These effects did not yet appear; she was not herself aware of them;
neither does the seed in the lap of earth know, when the refreshing dew
and the warm sunbeams fall upon it, that it contains within itself power
by which it will flourish and bloom. The song of the mother sinks into
the heart of the child, and the little one prattles the words after her,
without understanding their meaning; but after a time the thoughts
expand, and what has been heard in childhood seems to the mind clear and
bright. So now the “Word,” which is all-powerful to create, was working
in the heart of Helga.

They rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and again
entered a pathless wood. Here, towards evening, they met with robbers.

“Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?” cried the robbers,
seizing the horse by the bridle, and dragging the two riders from its
back.

The priest had nothing to defend himself with, but the knife he had taken
from Helga, and with this he struck out right and left. One of the
robbers raised his axe against him; but the young priest sprang on one
side, and avoided the blow, which fell with great force on the horse’s
neck, so that the blood gushed forth, and the animal sunk to the ground.
Then Helga seemed suddenly to awake from her long, deep reverie; she
threw herself hastily upon the dying animal. The priest placed himself
before her, to defend and shelter her; but one of the robbers swung his
iron axe against the Christian’s head with such force that it was dashed
to pieces, the blood and brains were scattered about, and he fell dead
upon the ground. Then the robbers seized beautiful Helga by her white
arms and slender waist; but at that moment the sun went down, and as its
last ray disappeared, she was changed into the form of a frog. A greenish
white mouth spread half over her face; her arms became thin and slimy;
while broad hands, with webbed fingers, spread themselves out like fans.
Then the robbers, in terror, let her go, and she stood among them, a
hideous monster; and as is the nature of frogs to do, she hopped up as
high as her own size, and disappeared in the thicket. Then the robbers
knew that this must be the work of an evil spirit or some secret sorcery,
and, in a terrible fright, they ran hastily from the spot.

The full moon had already risen, and was shining in all her radiant
splendor over the earth, when from the thicket, in the form of a frog,
crept poor Helga. She stood still by the corpse of the Christian priest,
and the carcase of the dead horse. She looked at them with eyes that
seemed to weep, and from the frog’s head came forth a croaking sound, as
when a child bursts into tears. She threw herself first upon one, and
then upon the other; brought water in her hand, which, from being webbed,
was large and hollow, and poured it over them; but they were dead, and
dead they would remain. She understood that at last. Soon wild animals
would come and tear their dead bodies; but no, that must not happen. Then
she dug up the earth, as deep as she was able, that she might prepare a
grave for them. She had nothing but a branch of a tree and her two hands,
between the fingers of which the webbed skin stretched, and they were
torn by the work, while the blood ran down her hands. She saw at last
that her work would be useless, more than she could accomplish; so she
fetched more water, and washed the face of the dead, and then covered it
with fresh green leaves; she also brought large boughs and spread over
him, and scattered dried leaves between the branches. Then she brought
the heaviest stones that she could carry, and laid them over the dead
body, filling up the crevices with moss, till she thought she had fenced
in his resting-place strongly enough. The difficult task had employed her
the whole night; and as the sun broke forth, there stood the beautiful
Helga in all her loveliness, with her bleeding hands, and, for the first
time, with tears on her maiden cheeks. It was, in this transformation, as
if two natures were striving together within her; her whole frame
trembled, and she looked around her as if she had just awoke from a
painful dream. She leaned for support against the trunk of a slender
tree, and at last climbed to the topmost branches, like a cat, and seated
herself firmly upon them. She remained there the whole day, sitting
alone, like a frightened squirrel, in the silent solitude of the wood,
where the rest and stillness is as the calm of death.

Butterflies fluttered around her, and close by were several ant-hills,
each with its hundreds of busy little creatures moving quickly to and
fro. In the air, danced myriads of gnats, swarm upon swarm, troops of
buzzing flies, ladybirds, dragon-flies with golden wings, and other
little winged creatures. The worm crawled forth from the moist ground,
and the moles crept out; but, excepting these, all around had the
stillness of death: but when people say this, they do not quite
understand themselves what they mean. None noticed Helga but a flock of
magpies, which flew chattering round the top of the tree on which she
sat. These birds hopped close to her on the branches with bold curiosity.
A glance from her eyes was a signal to frighten them away, and they were
not clever enough to find out who she was; indeed she hardly knew
herself.

When the sun was near setting, and the evening’s twilight about to
commence, the approaching transformation aroused her to fresh exertion.
She let herself down gently from the tree, and, as the last sunbeam
vanished, she stood again in the wrinkled form of a frog, with the torn,
webbed skin on her hands, but her eyes now gleamed with more radiant
beauty than they had ever possessed in her most beautiful form of
loveliness; they were now pure, mild maidenly eyes that shone forth in
the face of a frog. They showed the existence of deep feeling and a human
heart, and the beauteous eyes overflowed with tears, weeping precious
drops that lightened the heart.

On the raised mound which she had made as a grave for the dead priest,
she found the cross made of the branches of a tree, the last work of him
who now lay dead and cold beneath it. A sudden thought came to Helga, and
she lifted up the cross and planted it upon the grave, between the stones
that covered him and the dead horse. The sad recollection brought the
tears to her eyes, and in this gentle spirit she traced the same sign in
the sand round the grave; and as she formed, with both her hands, the
sign of the cross, the web skin fell from them like a torn glove. She
washed her hands in the water of the spring, and gazed with astonishment
at their delicate whiteness. Again she made the holy sign in the air,
between herself and the dead man; her lips trembled, her tongue moved,
and the name which she in her ride through the forest had so often heard
spoken, rose to her lips, and she uttered the words, “Jesus Christ.” Then
the frog skin fell from her; she was once more a lovely maiden. Her head
bent wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and then she slept.

Her sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight, she awoke; before her
stood the dead horse, prancing and full of life, which shone forth from
his eyes and from his wounded neck. Close by his side appeared the
murdered Christian priest, more beautiful than Baldur, as the Viking’s
wife had said; but now he came as if in a flame of fire. Such gravity,
such stern justice, such a piercing glance shone from his large, gentle
eyes, that it seemed to penetrate into every corner of her heart.
Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her memory returned with a
power as if it had been the day of judgment. Every good deed that had
been done for her, every loving word that had been said, were vividly
before her mind. She understood now that love had kept her here during
the day of her trial; while the creature formed of dust and clay, soul
and spirit, had wrestled and struggled with evil. She acknowledged that
she had only followed the impulses of an evil disposition, that she had
done nothing to cure herself; everything had been given her, and all had
happened as it were by the ordination of Providence. She bowed herself
humbly, confessed her great imperfections in the sight of Him who can
read every fault of the heart, and then the priest spoke. “Daughter of
the moorland, thou hast come from the swamp and the marshy earth, but
from this thou shalt arise. The sunlight shining into thy inmost soul
proves the origin from which thou hast really sprung, and has restored
the body to its natural form. I am come to thee from the land of the
dead, and thou also must pass through the valley to reach the holy
mountains where mercy and perfection dwell. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby
that thou mayst receive Christian baptism, for first thou must remove the
thick veil with which the waters of the moorland are shrouded, and bring
forth from its depths the living author of thy being and thy life. Till
this is done, thou canst not receive consecration.”

Then he lifted her on the horse and gave her a golden censer, similar to
those she had already seen at the Viking’s house. A sweet perfume arose
from it, while the open wound in the forehead of the slain priest, shone
with the rays of a diamond. He took the cross from the grave, and held it
aloft, and now they rode through the air over the rustling trees, over
the hills where warriors lay buried each by his dead war-horse; and the
brazen monumental figures rose up and galloped forth, and stationed
themselves on the summits of the hills. The golden crescent on their
foreheads, fastened with golden knots, glittered in the moonlight, and
their mantles floated in the wind. The dragon, that guards buried
treasure, lifted his head and gazed after them. The goblins and the
satyrs peeped out from beneath the hills, and flitted to and fro in the
fields, waving blue, red, and green torches, like the glowing sparks in
burning paper. Over woodland and heath, flood and fen, they flew on, till
they reached the wild moor, over which they hovered in broad circles. The
Christian priest held the cross aloft, and it glittered like gold, while
from his lips sounded pious prayers. Beautiful Helga’s voice joined with
his in the hymns he sung, as a child joins in her mother’s song. She
swung the censer, and a wonderful fragrance of incense arose from it; so
powerful, that the reeds and rushes of the moor burst forth into blossom.
Each germ came forth from the deep ground: all that had life raised
itself. Blooming water-lilies spread themselves forth like a carpet of
wrought flowers, and upon them lay a slumbering woman, young and
beautiful. Helga fancied that it was her own image she saw reflected in
the still water. But it was her mother she beheld, the wife of the Marsh
King, the princess from the land of the Nile.

The dead Christian priest desired that the sleeping woman should be
lifted on the horse, but the horse sank beneath the load, as if he had
been a funeral pall fluttering in the wind. But the sign of the cross
made the airy phantom strong, and then the three rode away from the marsh
to firm ground.

At the same moment the cock crew in the Viking’s castle, and the dream
figures dissolved and floated away in the air, but mother and daughter
stood opposite to each other.

“Am I looking at my own image in the deep water?” said the mother.

“Is it myself that I see represented on a white shield?” cried the
daughter.

Then they came nearer to each other in a fond embrace. The mother’s heart
beat quickly, and she understood the quickened pulses. “My child!” she
exclaimed, “the flower of my heart—my lotus flower of the deep water!”
and she embraced her child again and wept, and the tears were as a
baptism of new life and love for Helga. “In swan’s plumage I came here,”
said the mother, “and here I threw off my feather dress. Then I sank down
through the wavering ground, deep into the marsh beneath, which closed
like a wall around me; I found myself after a while in fresher water;
still a power drew me down deeper and deeper. I felt the weight of sleep
upon my eyelids. Then I slept, and dreams hovered round me. It seemed to
me as if I were again in the pyramids of Egypt, and yet the waving elder
trunk that had frightened me on the moor stood ever before me. I observed
the clefts and wrinkles in the stem; they shone forth in strange colors,
and took the form of hieroglyphics. It was the mummy case on which I
gazed. At last it burst, and forth stepped the thousand years’ old king,
the mummy form, black as pitch, black as the shining wood-snail, or the
slimy mud of the swamp. Whether it was really the mummy or the Marsh King
I know not. He seized me in his arms, and I felt as if I must die. When I
recovered myself, I found in my bosom a little bird, flapping its wings,
twittering and fluttering. The bird flew away from my bosom, upwards
towards the dark, heavy canopy above me, but a long, green band kept it
fastened to me. I heard and understood the tenor of its longings.
Freedom! sunlight! to my father! Then I thought of my father, and the
sunny land of my birth, my life, and my love. Then I loosened the band,
and let the bird fly away to its home—to a father. Since that hour I have
ceased to dream; my sleep has been long and heavy, till in this very
hour, harmony and fragrance awoke me, and set me free.”

The green band which fastened the wings of the bird to the mother’s
heart, where did it flutter now? whither had it been wafted? The stork
only had seen it. The band was the green stalk, the cup of the flower the
cradle in which lay the child, that now in blooming beauty had been
folded to the mother’s heart.

And while the two were resting in each other’s arms, the old stork flew
round and round them in narrowing circles, till at length he flew away
swiftly to his nest, and fetched away the two suits of swan’s feathers,
which he had preserved there for many years. Then he returned to the
mother and daughter, and threw the swan’s plumage over them; the feathers
immediately closed around them, and they rose up from the earth in the
form of two white swans.

“And now we can converse with pleasure,” said the stork-papa; “we can
understand one another, although the beaks of birds are so different in
shape. It is very fortunate that you came to-night. To-morrow we should
have been gone. The mother, myself and the little ones, we’re about to
fly to the south. Look at me now: I am an old friend from the Nile, and a
mother’s heart contains more than her beak. She always said that the
princess would know how to help herself. I and the young ones carried the
swan’s feathers over here, and I am glad of it now, and how lucky it is
that I am here still. When the day dawns we shall start with a great
company of other storks. We’ll fly first, and you can follow in our
track, so that you cannot miss your way. I and the young ones will have
an eye upon you.”

“And the lotus-flower which I was to take with me,” said the Egyptian
princess, “is flying here by my side, clothed in swan’s feathers. The
flower of my heart will travel with me; and so the riddle is solved. Now
for home! now for home!”

But Helga said she could not leave the Danish land without once more
seeing her foster-mother, the loving wife of the Viking. Each pleasing
recollection, each kind word, every tear from the heart which her
foster-mother had wept for her, rose in her mind, and at that moment she
felt as if she loved this mother the best.

“Yes, we must go to the Viking’s castle,” said the stork; “mother and the
young ones are waiting for me there. How they will open their eyes and
flap their wings! My wife, you see, does not say much; she is short and
abrupt in her manner; but she means well, for all that. I will flap my
wings at once, that they may hear us coming.” Then stork-papa flapped his
wings in first-rate style, and he and the swans flew away to the Viking’s
castle.

In the castle, every one was in a deep sleep. It had been late in the
evening before the Viking’s wife retired to rest. She was anxious about
Helga, who, three days before, had vanished with the Christian priest.
Helga must have helped him in his flight, for it was her horse that was
missed from the stable; but by what power had all this been accomplished?
The Viking’s wife thought of it with wonder, thought on the miracles
which they said could be performed by those who believed in the Christian
faith, and followed its teachings. These passing thoughts formed
themselves into a vivid dream, and it seemed to her that she was still
lying awake on her couch, while without darkness reigned. A storm arose;
she heard the lake dashing and rolling from east and west, like the waves
of the North Sea or the Cattegat. The monstrous snake which, it is said,
surrounds the earth in the depths of the ocean, was trembling in
spasmodic convulsions. The night of the fall of the gods was come,
“Ragnorock,” as the heathens call the judgment-day, when everything shall
pass away, even the high gods themselves. The war trumpet sounded; riding
upon the rainbow, came the gods, clad in steel, to fight their last
battle on the last battle-field. Before them flew the winged vampires,
and the dead warriors closed up the train. The whole firmament was ablaze
with the northern lights, and yet the darkness triumphed. It was a
terrible hour. And, close to the terrified woman, Helga seemed to be
seated on the floor, in the hideous form of a frog, yet trembling, and
clinging to her foster-mother, who took her on her lap, and lovingly
caressed her, hideous and frog-like as she was. The air was filled with
the clashing of arms and the hissing of arrows, as if a storm of hail was
descending upon the earth. It seemed to her the hour when earth and sky
would burst asunder, and all things be swallowed up in Saturn’s fiery
lake; but she knew that a new heaven and a new earth would arise, and
that corn-fields would wave where now the lake rolled over desolate
sands, and the ineffable God reign. Then she saw rising from the region
of the dead, Baldur the gentle, the loving, and as the Viking’s wife
gazed upon him, she recognized his countenance. It was the captive
Christian priest. “White Christian!” she exclaimed aloud, and with the
words, she pressed a kiss on the forehead of the hideous frog-child. Then
the frog-skin fell off, and Helga stood before her in all her beauty,
more lovely and gentle-looking, and with eyes beaming with love. She
kissed the hands of her foster-mother, blessed her for all her fostering
love and care during the days of her trial and misery, for the thoughts
she had suggested and awoke in her heart, and for naming the Name which
she now repeated. Then beautiful Helga rose as a mighty swan, and spread
her wings with the rushing sound of troops of birds of passage flying
through the air.

Then the Viking’s wife awoke, but she still heard the rushing sound
without. She knew it was the time for the storks to depart, and that it
must be their wings which she heard. She felt she should like to see them
once more, and bid them farewell. She rose from her couch, stepped out on
the threshold, and beheld, on the ridge of the roof, a party of storks
ranged side by side. Troops of the birds were flying in circles over the
castle and the highest trees; but just before her, as she stood on the
threshold and close to the well where Helga had so often sat and alarmed
her with her wildness, now stood two swans, gazing at her with
intelligent eyes. Then she remembered her dream, which still appeared to
her as a reality. She thought of Helga in the form of a swan. She thought
of a Christian priest, and suddenly a wonderful joy arose in her heart.
The swans flapped their wings and arched their necks as if to offer her a
greeting, and the Viking’s wife spread out her arms towards them, as if
she accepted it, and smiled through her tears. She was roused from deep
thought by a rustling of wings and snapping of beaks; all the storks
arose, and started on their journey towards the south.

“We will not wait for the swans,” said the mamma stork; “if they want to
go with us, let them come now; we can’t sit here till the plovers start.
It is a fine thing after all to travel in families, not like the finches
and the partridges. There the male and the female birds fly in separate
flocks, which, to speak candidly, I consider very unbecoming.”

“What are those swans flapping their wings for?”

“Well, every one flies in his own fashion,” said the papa stork. “The
swans fly in an oblique line; the cranes, in the form of a triangle; and
the plovers, in a curved line like a snake.”

“Don’t talk about snakes while we are flying up here,” said stork-mamma.
“It puts ideas into the children’s heads that can not be realized.”

“Are those the high mountains I have heard spoken of?” asked Helga, in
the swan’s plumage.

“They are storm-clouds driving along beneath us,” replied her mother.

“What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?” again inquired Helga.

“Those are mountains covered with perpetual snows, that you see yonder,”
said her mother. And then they flew across the Alps towards the blue
Mediterranean.

“Africa’s land! Egyptia’s strand!” sang the daughter of the Nile, in her
swan’s plumage, as from the upper air she caught sight of her native
land, a narrow, golden, wavy strip on the shores of the Nile; the other
birds espied it also and hastened their flight.

“I can smell the Nile mud and the wet frogs,” said the stork-mamma, “and
I begin to feel quite hungry. Yes, now you shall taste something nice,
and you will see the marabout bird, and the ibis, and the crane. They all
belong to our family, but they are not nearly so handsome as we are. They
give themselves great airs, especially the ibis. The Egyptians have
spoilt him. They make a mummy of him, and stuff him with spices. I would
rather be stuffed with live frogs, and so would you, and so you shall.
Better have something in your inside while you are alive, than to be made
a parade of after you are dead. That is my opinion, and I am always
right.”

“The storks are come,” was said in the great house on the banks of the
Nile, where the lord lay in the hall on his downy cushions, covered with
a leopard skin, scarcely alive, yet not dead, waiting and hoping for the
lotus-flower from the deep moorland in the far north. Relatives and
servants were standing by his couch, when the two beautiful swans who had
come with the storks flew into the hall. They threw off their soft white
plumage, and two lovely female forms approached the pale, sick old man,
and threw back their long hair, and when Helga bent over her grandfather,
redness came back to his cheeks, his eyes brightened, and life returned
to his benumbed limbs. The old man rose up with health and energy
renewed; daughter and grandchild welcomed him as joyfully as if with a
morning greeting after a long and troubled dream.

Joy reigned through the whole house, as well as in the stork’s nest;
although there the chief cause was really the good food, especially the
quantities of frogs, which seemed to spring out of the ground in swarms.

Then the learned men hastened to note down, in flying characters, the
story of the two princesses, and spoke of the arrival of the
health-giving flower as a mighty event, which had been a blessing to the
house and the land. Meanwhile, the stork-papa told the story to his
family in his own way; but not till they had eaten and were satisfied;
otherwise they would have had something else to do than to listen to
stories.

“Well,” said the stork-mamma, when she had heard it, “you will be made
something of at last; I suppose they can do nothing less.”

“What could I be made?” said stork-papa; “what have I done?— just
nothing.”

“You have done more than all the rest,” she replied. “But for you and the
youngsters the two young princesses would never have seen Egypt again,
and the recovery of the old man would not have been effected. You will
become something. They must certainly give you a doctor’s hood, and our
young ones will inherit it, and their children after them, and so on. You
already look like an Egyptian doctor, at least in my eyes.”

“I cannot quite remember the words I heard when I listened on the roof,”
said stork-papa, while relating the story to his family; “all I know is,
that what the wise men said was so complicated and so learned, that they
received not only rank, but presents; even the head cook at the great
house was honored with a mark of distinction, most likely for the soup.”

“And what did you receive?” said the stork-mamma. “They certainly ought
not to forget the most important person in the affair, as you really are.
The learned men have done nothing at all but use their tongues. Surely
they will not overlook you.”

Late in the night, while the gentle sleep of peace rested on the now
happy house, there was still one watcher. It was not stork-papa, who,
although he stood on guard on one leg, could sleep soundly. Helga alone
was awake. She leaned over the balcony, gazing at the sparkling stars
that shone clearer and brighter in the pure air than they had done in the
north, and yet they were the same stars. She thought of the Viking’s wife
in the wild moorland, of the gentle eyes of her foster-mother, and of the
tears she had shed over the poor frog-child that now lived in splendor
and starry beauty by the waters of the Nile, with air balmy and sweet as
spring. She thought of the love that dwelt in the breast of the heathen
woman, love that had been shown to a wretched creature, hateful as a
human being, and hideous when in the form of an animal. She looked at the
glittering stars, and thought of the radiance that had shone forth on the
forehead of the dead man, as she had fled with him over the woodland and
moor. Tones were awakened in her memory; words which she had heard him
speak as they rode onward, when she was carried, wondering and trembling,
through the air; words from the great Fountain of love, the highest love
that embraces all the human race. What had not been won and achieved by
this love?

Day and night beautiful Helga was absorbed in the contemplation of the
great amount of her happiness, and lost herself in the contemplation,
like a child who turns hurriedly from the giver to examine the beautiful
gifts. She was over-powered with her good fortune, which seemed always
increasing, and therefore what might it become in the future? Had she not
been brought by a wonderful miracle to all this joy and happiness? And in
these thoughts she indulged, until at last she thought no more of the
Giver. It was the over-abundance of youthful spirits unfolding its wings
for a daring flight. Her eyes sparkled with energy, when suddenly arose a
loud noise in the court below, and the daring thought vanished. She
looked down, and saw two large ostriches running round quickly in narrow
circles; she had never seen these creatures before,—great, coarse,
clumsy-looking birds with curious wings that looked as if they had been
clipped, and the birds themselves had the appearance of having been
roughly used. She inquired about them, and for the first time heard the
legend which the Egyptians relate respecting the ostrich.

Once, say they, the ostriches were a beautiful and glorious race of
birds, with large, strong wings. One evening the other large birds of the
forest said to the ostrich, “Brother, shall we fly to the river to-morrow
morning to drink, God willing?” and the ostrich answered, “I
will.”

With the break of day, therefore, they commenced their flight; first
rising high in the air, towards the sun, which is the eye of God; still
higher and higher the ostrich flew, far above the other birds, proudly
approaching the light, trusting in its own strength, and thinking not of
the Giver, or saying, “if God will.” When suddenly the avenging
angel drew back the veil from the flaming ocean of sunlight, and in a
moment the wings of the proud bird were scorched and shrivelled, and they
sunk miserably to the earth. Since that time the ostrich and his race
have never been able to rise in the air; they can only fly
terror-stricken along the ground, or run round and round in narrow
circles. It is a warning to mankind, that in all our thoughts and
schemes, and in every action we undertake, we should say, “if God
will.”

Then Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and seriously, and looked at the
circling ostrich, as with timid fear and simple pleasure it glanced at
its own great shadow on the sunlit walls. And the story of the ostrich
sunk deeply into the heart and mind of Helga: a life of happiness, both
in the present and in the future, seemed secure for her, and what was yet
to come might be the best of all, God willing.

Early in the spring, when the storks were again about to journey
northward, beautiful Helga took off her golden bracelets, scratched her
name on them, and beckoned to the stork-father. He came to her, and she
placed the golden circlet round his neck, and begged him to deliver it
safely to the Viking’s wife, so that she might know that her
foster-daughter still lived, was happy, and had not forgotten her.

“It is rather heavy to carry,” thought stork-papa, when he had it on his
neck; “but gold and honor are not to be flung into the street. The stork
brings good fortune—they’ll be obliged to acknowledge that at last.”

“You lay gold, and I lay eggs,” said stork-mamma; “with you it is only
once in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates what we do; I
call it very mortifying.”

“But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,” replied
stork-papa.

“What good will that do you?” retorted stork-mamma; “it will neither
bring you a fair wind, nor a good meal.”

“The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind grove,
will soon be going north, too.” Helga said she had often heard her
singing on the wild moor, so she determined to send a message by her.
While flying in the swan’s plumage she had learnt the bird language; she
had often conversed with the stork and the swallow, and she knew that the
nightingale would understand. So she begged the nightingale to fly to the
beechwood, on the peninsula of Jutland, where a mound of stone and twigs
had been raised to form the grave, and she begged the nightingale to
persuade all the other little birds to build their nests round the place,
so that evermore should resound over that grave music and song. And the
nightingale flew away, and time flew away also.

In the autumn, an eagle, standing upon a pyramid, saw a stately train of
richly laden camels, and men attired in armor on foaming Arabian steeds,
whose glossy skins shone like silver, their nostrils were pink, and their
thick, flowing manes hung almost to their slender legs. A royal prince of
Arabia, handsome as a prince should be, and accompanied by distinguished
guests, was on his way to the stately house, on the roof of which the
storks’ empty nests might be seen. They were away now in the far north,
but expected to return very soon. And, indeed, they returned on a day
that was rich in joy and gladness.

A marriage was being celebrated, in which the beautiful Helga, glittering
in silk and jewels, was the bride, and the bridegroom the young Arab
prince. Bride and bridegroom sat at the upper end of the table, between
the bride’s mother and grandfather. But her gaze was not on the
bridegroom, with his manly, sunburnt face, round which curled a black
beard, and whose dark fiery eyes were fixed upon her; but away from him,
at a twinkling star, that shone down upon her from the sky. Then was
heard the sound of rushing wings beating the air. The storks were coming
home; and the old stork pair, although tired with the journey and
requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at once to the balustrades of
the verandah, for they knew already what feast was being celebrated. They
had heard of it on the borders of the land, and also that Helga had
caused their figures to be represented on the walls, for they belonged to
her history.

“I call that very sensible and pretty,” said stork-papa.

“Yes, but it is very little,” said mamma stork; “they could not possibly
have done less.”

But, when Helga saw them, she rose and went out into the verandah to
stroke the backs of the storks. The old stork pair bowed their heads, and
curved their necks, and even the youngest among the young ones felt
honored by this reception.

Helga continued to gaze upon the glittering star, which seemed to glow
brighter and purer in its light; then between herself and the star
floated a form, purer than the air, and visible through it. It floated
quite near to her, and she saw that it was the dead Christian priest, who
also was coming to her wedding feast—coming from the heavenly kingdom.

“The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known on earth,”
said he.

Then Helga the fair prayed more gently, and more earnestly, than she had
ever prayed in her life before, that she might be permitted to gaze, if
only for a single moment, at the glory and brightness of the heavenly
kingdom. Then she felt herself lifted up, as it were, above the earth,
through a sea of sound and thought; not only around her, but within her,
was there light and song, such as words cannot express.

“Now we must return;” he said; “you will be missed.”

“Only one more look,” she begged; “but one short moment more.”

“We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed. Only one
more look!—the last!”

Then Helga stood again in the verandah. But the marriage lamps in the
festive hall had been all extinguished, and the torches outside had
vanished. The storks were gone; not a guest could be seen; no
bridegroom—all in those few short moments seemed to have died. Then a
great dread fell upon her. She stepped from the verandah through the
empty hall into the next chamber, where slept strange warriors. She
opened a side door, which once led into her own apartment, but now, as
she passed through, she found herself suddenly in a garden which she had
never before seen here, the sky blushed red, it was the dawn of morning.
Three minutes only in heaven, and a whole night on earth had passed away!
Then she saw the storks, and called to them in their own language.

Then stork-papa turned his head towards here, listened to her words, and
drew near. “You speak our language,” said he, “what do you wish? Why do
you appear,—you—a strange woman?”

“It is I—it is Helga! Dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we were
speaking together yonder in the verandah.”

“That is a mistake,” said the stork, “you must have dreamed all this.”

“No, no,” she exclaimed. Then she reminded him of the Viking’s castle, of
the great lake, and of the journey across the ocean.

Then stork-papa winked his eyes, and said, “Why that’s an old story which
happened in the time of my grandfather. There certainly was a princess of
that kind here in Egypt once, who came from the Danish land, but she
vanished on the evening of her wedding day, many hundred years ago, and
never came back. You may read about it yourself yonder, on a monument in
the garden. There you will find swans and storks sculptured, and on the
top is a figure of the princess Helga, in marble.”

And so it was; Helga understood it all now, and sank on her knees. The
sun burst forth in all its glory, and, as in olden times, the form of the
frog vanished in his beams, and the beautiful form stood forth in all its
loveliness; so now, bathed in light, rose a beautiful form, purer,
clearer than air—a ray of brightness—from the Source of light Himself.
The body crumbled into dust, and a faded lotus-flower lay on the spot on
which Helga had stood.

“Now that is a new ending to the story,” said stork-papa; “I really never
expected it would end in this way, but it seems a very good ending.”